We get inside and it’s crowded. In the right corner near the television, I see girls cheering, celebrating downing their shots successfully. By the coffee table where Mthawenkosi and his fans were chilling, I see the boys sucking on lime wedges in an effort to balance the flavour of the shot.

Just as I look up, Blonde Hair with Flower Shirt Drill Sergeant is standing in front of us with a tray that holds four shots and four lime wedges on a saucer.

“Drink up!” he says.

Palesa and I grab one glass each and gulp the bitter liquid that would taste a lot better if I was having it with a close friend at my place.

We grab the lime wedges and suck on them as if our lives depend on it.

“Next round!” he says, pointing at the other two shots.

“No ways, man, we’re done,” I protest.

“It’s two shots per person, everyone here has had two shots,” he explains.

We do the second round, and he leaves us be.

“I am leaving now, do you want me to help you find your friend before I go?” I ask Palesa.

“Yes please, thank you,” she says, sounding worried.

We go room to room but we can’t find Palesa’s friend. As we walk towards the next room to search, Palesa grabs my hand. I turn back to look at her. She looks woozy.

“I feel a little dizzy,” she says.

“It’s the alcohol,” I respond.

10 minutes later, we still haven’t found her friend. And, I am tired.

“You know your way home, don’t you? Can’t you leave without her?” I ask.

“She drove us here, I live about 30 minutes away from here,” she says.

“It’s fine. I’ll just Uber,” she says, as she scratches her bag for her phone. She looks up, almost defeated.

“I didn’t bring my pocket charger, my battery is dead. Do you have a charger?” she says.

I wave my Android phone at her. “Sorry, should we go in and find someone who can lend you a charger?” I ask.

“We barely got out of there alive, we can’t go back in,” she says, in a whisper, as if she’s lost her will to live.

“I really don’t want to leave you here when you’re feeling dizzy. But I don’t have money to Uber you either. My place is a 10-minute walk from here. Are you comfortable coming with me? I can ask, well, she’s not a friend, but someone who lives on the same block as me, she also uses your fruit phone,” I say.

She nods. We start walking.

“Let’s walk a bit faster. They might call it a safe neighbourhood but it’s still in South Africa, I don’t trust anyone,” I say.

“I thought I was paranoid.” She leaves the rest of what she wanted to say in her throat.

We arrive at the gate and instant relief washes over me. We walk over to Amanda’s place, knock on the door for a good five minutes but there’s no response.

“She told you she was going out earlier.” It’s that annoying voice inside me again.

I gesture that we should walk to my place and regroup there.

I pull out the chair from my desk and tell her to sit down. “I think I have her number, wait a minute,” I say.

I scroll through my ‘A’ contacts, and no Amanda. Maybe I put her down as Mandy. Nope, nothing. Then it hits me, I didn’t know her name when we exchanged numbers. I scroll through my contacts again.

Weird pretty girl from next door. There it is, this is her!

“I found her number but I am awkward on calls, so should I text her?” I ask Palesa.

She shrugs.

Hi, this is Mihlali from next door. I don’t know if you’re home, you said earlier you were going out but I need your help urgently. Someone needs a charger, you have the same phone, is it possible that you can lend it to us until she gets a bar? I met her at a party I went to for food, she is kind of stranded with her battery dead, she can’t go home and I just want to help out but I use an Android. We’re at my place. Sorry to bother you.

I contemplate deleting the message, and telling Palesa she didn’t respond. Why am I saying all these things? I could just ask for a charger without this much monologue.

“Are you done?” asks Palesa.

She startles me and I accidentally send the message to Amanda. Oh FML!

Tell us: Why do you think Mihlali is reluctant to send the message?